


harmless flirting

by takecourage



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Drinking, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Pining, Sharing a Bed, Sleeping Together, Star Gazing, flirting by comparing hand sizes, god i love this funky little cowboy, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:28:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25716556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takecourage/pseuds/takecourage
Summary: The night was still, quiet. Peaceful, like the world just stopped, just for them. They drank in comfortable silence for a while, and Morse couldn’t take his eyes off Jakes. There was something about him, something Morse had never seen before, and it wasintoxicating.
Relationships: Peter Jakes/Endeavour Morse
Comments: 8
Kudos: 50





	harmless flirting

It was nothing.

Well, maybe it was a bit more than nothing.

It might have been the way Jakes leant back, his eyes glittering, resting a beer bottle on his knee, head resting against the tree that shielded them from any prying eyes. Or it might have been the way the moonlight mingled with the streetlights and wandered through the park, just enough to see the shape and all the edges and highlights of him. Or it might have been the way he looked at Morse, slightly drunk and a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

It was a bit of a blur as to how exactly he got to be there, sat too close to Jakes to be considered socially acceptable behind a tree in the park, drinking cheap beer, like they were a couple of kids playing truant. He had been in the pub, shockingly, half-listening to Strange talk about something or other, nodding and making vague noises of agreement or surprise whenever seemed appropriate. He had gone to buy a round and came back to find Peter bloody Jakes, of all people, sitting in his seat. Strange, ever the diplomat, had quickly pulled Morse up a chair from a neighbouring table and they carried on as normal, with the smoke from Jakes’ cigarette sticking to their clothes. Two or five rounds later, Strange had made his excuses and left. Morse and Jakes had carried on drinking, and they just starting talking to each other, which was already weird, but they were talking without snapping at each other, without winding each other up, which was weirder, and Jakes seemed to be warming to him — although enough booze would do that to anyone — when he stood up suddenly, pulling Morse to his feet as well, eyes shining and saying _come with me_. He doesn’t remember most of the journey, only that Jakes disappeared on the high street and re-appeared two minutes later with a six pack of beer.

(Jakes is sat on his sofa, holding a bottle of whiskey that was full about an hour ago, occasionally bringing it to his lips to get the last few drops that seem stuck at the bottom. Morse is sat on the floor between his legs, leaning his head against his knee, looking up at him with excited eyes and talking about something in barely coherent sentences, stopping and starting so much Jakes has no idea if it’s still the same story as a few moments before, so he just idly plays with his hair instead.

Neither of them remember it properly in the morning, but Morse finds himself actually day-dreaming about Jakes’ hands in his hair for almost a week after)

The night was still, quiet. Peaceful, like the world just stopped, just for them. They drank in comfortable silence for a while, and Morse couldn’t take his eyes off Jakes. There was something about him, something Morse had never seen before, and it was _intoxicating_. Something in the way he held himself, casual but oozing confidence. Something in the way in the shadows played on his skin, the shifting light making his skin glow and eyes shine. Something in the way he watched Morse take a long swig of beer, looking like the drink wasn’t the only thing he wanted.

“Give us your hand a second,” he said, holding his up, slender fingers spread wide.

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Just wanna check something.”

Morse pressed his hand against Jakes’. His fingers were longer, because of course they bloody were, and he grinned like Christmas came early as he curled them slightly to press down on Morse’s fingertips. Then he did something very strange: he twisted his hand ever so slightly and interlocked his fingers with Morse’s, squeezed his hand softly, and then pulled away to fish a cigarette out from his pocket.

For a good five seconds, Morse’s mind went completely blank. By the time he was able to have coherent thoughts again, he was convinced he imagined it.

Jakes held out the cigarette packet out towards him, questioning, and he instinctively shook his head despite the fact he’d never needed one more in his life. “‘Course not.” His voice wasn’t mocking, or sharp, or bored, or anything Morse had come to expect. It was gently laughing and, if he hadn’t known better, he would’ve called it kind. It was strange, but he just knew he could get used to it all too easily.

He managed to tear his gaze away long enough to look up at the stars, bright white against the black sky, some partially covered by slivers of cloud but still just about visible, even from all those millions of miles away. He suddenly felt very small, a tiny speck of dust drifting aimlessly through the vast and infinite cosmos. Almost without thinking, he moved closer to Jakes, like he was in his orbit, and _celestial body_ took on a whole new meaning.

Grasping at straws for some smaller reason as to why he was now practically sat in Jakes’ lap, he pointed up to the sky. “Orion’s Belt,” he murmured. He could feel Jakes’ eyes on him, felt the heat of him, and it was like electricity was coursing through them both, linking them together.

“Is that it?” It was barely louder than a whisper. It didn’t need to be.

“The rest of him as well.” He pointed to the surrounding stars. “And Ursa Major.”

He practically heard Jakes roll his eyes. “What’d you call that when it’s at home?”

“The Great Bear.”

Jakes snorted. “That’s meant to be a bear? Give over.” He gestured towards a small cluster of stars. “Look, it’s the guvnor!”

Morse actually laughed out loud at that, and Jakes had this big grin on his face as he lit another cigarette and took a long drag.

They settled back down into a comfortable but weighted silence, watching the stars and the wisps of cloud floating high above Oxford. Morse didn’t dare look at him again. If he saw the way the stars shone in Jakes’ eyes and the light playing with shadow on his skin and the smoke swirling from his lips it might’ve just finished him off altogether. He realised, with a start, that he wanted to kiss him. He wanted to kiss him so badly it hurt.

(By the time Morse is more or less awake — and trying to ignore the beginnings of a hangover — the weak light of a winter morning is filtering through the curtains, covering everything with a fine layer of dull silver. It’s also absolutely freezing, largely because Peter seems to have most of the covers wrapped around himself, like a cocoon. Morse decides he’d rather freeze than accidentally wake him up trying to get any of them back, so instead he stares at the ceiling for a while, counting the bumps in the paint. Peter is lying next to him, fast asleep. Dark circles under his eyes and fine threads of purple on his eyelids, his eyelashes splayed out against the smooth skin of his cheeks. He’s so still he could be a painting; the light and shadow intertwined to create all these beautiful details — the curve where his neck meets his shoulders, the soft folds in the duvet, the faint bruises on his knuckles — and the _shape_ of him, he’s normally all hard edges and sharp angles but now he looks so soft and delicate, all the tension long gone from his face.

He looks… sweet.

It’s an uncomfortable realisation for two reasons. The first being that Peter Jakes is many things; popular, confident bordering on arrogant, and generally a bit of a prick, but absolutely _not_ sweet. The second being that Morse wants to hold him. He wants to hold him so badly it hurts. He shuts down that thought almost as quickly as it comes to him, and gets up quickly, wincing slightly as the mattress springs complain. He doesn’t dare look back, because if he does, he’ll get straight back into bed and stay there until Peter throws him out.

He gathers up his clothes, scattered far and bloody wide as they are, and barely gets himself decent before he gives in and turns to look at Peter. He knows it’s a mistake but can’t really bring himself to care, not when Peter smiles in his sleep and reaches out to where Morse was lying a few moments ago, fingers twisting into the sheets. Confusion drifts across his face, his eyes fluttering open.

_Shit._

He looks at his outstretched hand, tightening his grip for a second, and then looks up Morse sleepily, one eyebrow raised and hair brilliantly messy.

“Are you trying to run out on me again?” His voice is rough and low, a touch of a smile around the edges, and despite his best efforts, Morse feels his heart melt.

He swallows, clutching his clothes slightly closer. “Maybe.”

“Well, don’t.” He says, as if that’s that. He shifts the duvet around so Morse can climb back in. “I’m bloody freezing.”

Morse doesn’t say anything; he’s too busy trying to make sense of the absolute car crash going on in his head. Peter Jakes, of all people, telling him to come back to bed is not something he was prepared to deal with so early in the morning or, in fact, ever, but he just said it with no thought, like it’s something that happens on the regular, and even worse, Morse _wants_ it to be something that happens on the regular. He wants to climb into bed with perfect bloody Peter Jakes and hold him close and never let go. And the absolute cheek of him complaining about the cold, huddled under the covers, when Morse had been shivering for half the night. He shakes his head, but gets back into bed, Peter adjusting the duvet over the both of them.

“Cold, are you? He asks innocently, shifting closer until there’s the tiniest gap between them, scarcely able to fight back a smile.

His eyes narrow slightly in suspicion as he nods, idly tracing circles on Morse’s arm.

And then Morse presses his ice-cold hands to Peter’s neck.

“Oh, you _bastard!_ ” He exclaims, recoiling, sitting bolt upright. Morse laughs so hard he can barely breathe, tears springing to his eyes. Peter lightly punches him on the arm by way of trying to get him to shut up. It does not work.

Morse’s laugh fades away as he looks up at Peter. He’s blushing, an embarrassed smile on his face, and honest-to-god _gazing_ down at him. What little sun there is has turned him back into that painting, every line and curve of him graceful and tender. The sight completely takes his breath away.

Morse wants to pull him down onto the mattress, tell him he’s a work of art, and kiss him until his lips turn blue. So he does)

“Jakes—” he started, promising himself that he was going to make his excuses and leave without looking back, or even at Jakes, at all.

“Peter.”

Morse broke his own promise almost instantly. He looked over at him, and his heart sung. “ _Peter_.” He relished the way it sounds, the way it felt on his tongue. The distinction felt immensely significant, although a small, nagging, irritatingly sober part of his brain told him come tomorrow _Peter_ will have vanished and left Jakes in his place.

That hardly felt important now. Not when there was barely an inch between them and he swore the distance was closing with every passing second and _Jesus_ , had Jakes — _Peter_ — always been so _beautiful?_

“What?” Peter asked softly.

_Can I have another drink? Can I have that cigarette? Can I kiss you?_ “Nothing.” And he doesn’t know why he did it, but he deftly stole the cigarette right from between Peter’s lips and took a drag, letting the smoke curl away from his lips for a second before blowing it directly in Peter’s face.

He shook his head, pulling back, scrunching his nose up at the smoke. “Unbelievable.”

_Oh, fuck it._ “So I’ve been told.” He said it slowly and deliberately, looking at Peter from under his eyelashes, taking another drag.

“Are you flirting with me?” He was smiling, halfway between impressed and surprised.

“Depends.” He said, hoping Peter didn’t see the way his hands shook as he flicked the ash from his cigarette. “Is it working?”

Peter’s gaze darted down to Morse’s lips and back. “Might be.”

And then Peter Jakes, of all people, closed the gap between them and kissed Morse slowly and sweetly, like they had all the time in the world. Morse leant into him, one hand cradling the back of his head and the other outstretched at a slightly awkward angle as to not accidentally brush Peter’s neck with the lit end of his cigarette. The feeling of his body against Morse’s own was dizzying, the way he pulled Morse closer, the way he held him still; like he was completely in control and Morse felt himself going crazy. It wasn’t a bad feeling at all. He found himself wanting _more_.

Peter pulled away and Morse let out a faint noise anyone else would’ve called a whine. Peter grinned again, his pupils blown wide. “That good?”

He tried not to smile back as he took the end of Peter’s tie between his fingers, smoothing his thumb back and forth over the material. “Like licking an ashtray.” He left out the faint taste of alcohol on Peter’s lips that made his head spin, the feel of him, the way he held Morse close, strong hands almost circling his waist.

“Cheeky fucker,” Peter said in a way that could only be described as _tender,_ gently brushing the backs of his fingers down Morse’s cheek, resting his thumb on Morse’s lips.

Before Morse could do something as stupid as tackle Peter into the grass and kiss him until the sun came up, realisation dawned across his face and he suddenly pulled away, getting to his feet.

“Shit, it’s late.”

_I don’t mind._ Morse looked around, hoping he seemed surprised at how dark it’s gotten.

“I should go.”

_I don’t want you to_. “I might… I’ll just finish this.” He gestured vaguely with his cigarette, hoping that might make him stay just a few minutes more.

The flash of disappointment across his face was brief but all too obvious. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Morse nodded, frantically scrabbling around in his head for that boldness that let him steal a cigarette right from another man’s lips and flirt with him and kiss him in the park by the faint light of the moon so he could at least kiss him goodbye. He didn’t find it in time.

(Peter is smoking out Morse’s bedroom window, one leg stretched out on the windowsill and the other half-hanging out the window as the sun steadily slips down, down, down; the Oxford sky ablaze with red and orange and distant blue, streaks of grey cloud underlined with pink.

The way the setting sun holds Peter is doing funny things to Morse’s head. Gold dancing across his skin, droplets of light pooling on his face, his clothes, his hands. As the smoke curls away from his lips, Morse gets the overwhelming feeling that he’s seeing something… new. Something far bigger than this room, this town, something that touches the setting sun and all the stars in the sky. The enormity of the sensation nearly chokes him. He looks at Peter and aches.

If he liked Peter a bit less — he didn’t dare to even think the other word; it felt too big for his body, too much for what he’s capable of, and far too final — he might be able to do something about it. But for now, he could deal with the ache, as long as Peter wanted to smoke out his window and let the sun set in front of him and let Oxford span out beneath his feet.

Morse smiles to himself and wonders why he feels like crying)

As Morse watched him walk away, he found himself praying that tomorrow wouldn’t replace _Peter_ with Jakes, which was a daft thing to pray for but he did it nonetheless. He knew it was silly, and that once Peter came to his senses — sobered up, more like — they would probably never speak about it again. Because it was nothing. It was just a bit of harmless flirting.

It was just one kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> an unbeta'd shambles! shocker! i hope the layout of this made sense and that I didnt cock up the tenses too badly lol  
> here's to hoping that u enjoyed anyway <3
> 
> (title is from harmless flirting by tim firth !)


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